The candelabra-like spent flower heads of Prairie Dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum) rising to ten and twelve feet in the photos above and below add a sense of magic, suspended as they are, like vegetable jewels, on amazingly strong stems above the surrounding plantings, dancing entwined with tall black-beaked, seed-heavy rods of Rudbeckia maxima. (Click on the photos to see detail.)
Private Meanings
On another level, appreciation of a planting can be a door to a personal world of private meaning. The plants in the next photo, delicately accented by flowering panicles of Molinia 'Transparent', can be seen as metaphor; they bring to my mind the quantum foam conceived by physicists, where matter and energy dance at some subatomic level, matter popping into and out of existence, changing into energy and back to matter eternally, a bubbling brew where we confront the hard edge of existence, being and non-being.
Musical analogy is another pleasing way to see a garden - think variations on a theme - the infinite variety of plant shapes, textures, leaf forms, movements, rhythmic changes over time - revealing similarities and differences in form, bearing, or other attributes. Below, mounds of Miscanthus 'Silberfeder', their ribbon-like foliage echoed in altered form by the tall wavy arms of the Japanese Fantail Willows (Salix sachalinensis 'Sekka') behind them, contrast with the big, low leaves of the Petasites at their base (the bass viol in this musical analogy?) ... in late summer the dusty silver of Mountain Mint (Pycnantheum muticum) flowing through it all like the sparkling high notes of a piccolo.
Below, a simple garden path defines the edge of the open space and of the garden, the boundary - a reminder of the garden's structure, largely invisible at this time of peak growth. Naturalistic as the garden is, even approaching wildness, particularly to more traditional gardeners, this is a structured space. The structure takes its impetus from the river delta-like drainage flow across the garden, from the linear pond at the entrance into the open garden, from the native stone walls emulating ancient stone rows built here in previous centuries, and from the circular clearing in the woods that defines the space of the cultivated garden - and from the plants themselves, placed to reflect similarities in form and structure, planted to create drifts, to create a visual sense of movement, even to tell a story.
Open space, the void that makes possible the view through and across the garden, given emphasis by the red circle of logs at the vanishing point in the photo below, is intrinsic to its structure - open space bounded by the wall of surrounding wood, but with occasional glimpses into corridor views opened by tree felling, or simply views into the interstices between the trees (an effect much more pronounced in winter when the leaves have fallen). And above it all the dome of sky opens the garden to the universe, yet is circumscribed by the circle of trees that enclose the space, too closely I think. Closed openness, like a nest.
As I walk through the garden, likeness and difference, similarity and contrast return my eye to the material aspects of the garden: a sanguisorba given by a fellow gardener, Mirjam Farkas, so different in structure from the flowering Joe Pye Weed (Eupatorium purpureum) behind it, yet so similar in color, brings to mind another reason for gardening, many as they are - in this case the pleasure of differentiating between similar and dissimilar things, something we observe in small children playing with shaped objects ...
Thick as the garden is planted, the architecture of the space reveals itself only over distance. The vertical cedar trunks 300 feet across from the viewpoint below provide a reference point, making it possible to "see" the intervening space.
And last, a closer view, taken with a small aperture to gain maximum depth of field, bringing multiple layers of the scene into focus. This foreground, the plants themselves, are transient structure, changing from hour to hour, day to day, season to season - the abstract and concrete in interplay, visible and invisible structure making the garden.
More Questions
In the end, this post raises more questions than it answers. Plenty of room for exploration of the concept of structure, especially in naturalistic gardening, remains. The role of memory as a starting point and source of pleasure is clearer. What gives pleasure is, of course, a highly subjective thing. I know from personal experience that many people are uncomfortable, if not frightened, in my garden, in most cases I think because they are intimidated by plants larger than themselves. But I'm not trying to start a movement.
I'm glad you provided a measure of the height of the taller plants, because the scale is hard to sense without the human yardstick in the image. Comparing the garden in its summer maturity to your winter photos makes for a striking contrast, and a fine reminder of the wonder of what plants do over just a very few months. After years of installing what I'd call "plastic plants" that pretty much just sit there all year, I'm still trying to work towards a garden that conveys change as well as yours. It's a lovely space. How can you not feel wonder there?
ReplyDeleteJames, yes, I need some human models. It is hard to convey the scale without that. Now I'm hoping to turn my attention more to the ground level. This kind of planting is rather rough toward the ground. It needs some low plantings that work with the rest, groundcovers of various sorts. That's complicated because I need to cut areas to the ground to control weeds. I'm hoping that will change over time.
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed this posting, James. In fact I have a hard time deciding if it's the pictures or the writing I enjoy most. Dr. Boyd would have enjoyed your phrasing I'm sure. Nice work.
ReplyDeleteIf I may insert a memory...
I grew up on a high school campus as an educator's son in the Mississippi Delta. Other teachers lived in the campus housing as well. As one of the "campus kids" I was privileged one late fall day to take part in building a giant kite with the help of one of the younger male teachers.
I suppose there were 5 or 6 of us helping, but he did most of the work. First we went into some deep, weedy brush along a marshy patch on the campus edge and pulled up tall, dried weeds perhaps 6 or 7 feet and quite strong. Then the teacher brought out used brown kraft paper from the local cleaners.
With these items and some paste and string, we built a hexagonal form from the weed sticks, overlaid the paper on it and built a kite that stood over 6 feet tall and perhaps 4 feet across.
We launched it with a long tail made from rags begged from our mothers and, with several balls of string, pulled it steadily aloft. It flew well and extremely high. We flew it until dusk approached and then took turns pulling string in double handsful while another would wind it into a giant ball. Our fingers burned with the strain from above
It was dark when we the kite came to earth and parents were calling us to dinner and bed. Everyone was so excited I don't believe any of us got much sleep that night.
Of such simple things are life memories built and the kindness of a young teacher gave one group of youngsters a new way to see above us all those years ago.
nallasenyt,
ReplyDeleteGood to hear from you. I see you haven't lost your gift for storytelling (or your memory:)! Dr. Boyd, were he still with us, might judge my blog post to be a little overly baroque. I still remember him standing by an open window one spring morning reading from The Canterbury Tales in Middle English. Perhaps I should strive for your leaner, more straightforward style. It reminds me of Garrison Kellor.